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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515773">It's Lonely at the Top</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_coriander_cadaverish/pseuds/sir_coriander_cadaverish'>sir_coriander_cadaverish</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Nimona (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:48:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,654</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_coriander_cadaverish/pseuds/sir_coriander_cadaverish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I imagine that during the 7-8 (ish?) years that our favorite duo was sworn to enmity, Sir Goldenloin had a ton of completely meaningless flings in a sort of frustrated, horny, Freddie-Mercury-with-a-bit-of-Jack-Twist fashion. This is totally not canon, but I like to think that it happened (after all, everyone's got a dark side, mm?).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>It's Lonely at the Top</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(This is a bit of a draft, so don't be surprised if you find this fanfic updating a little bit here and there.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>As he began to approach his dreaded thirties, Sir Goldenloin found himself falling into a sort of restless, brooding funk. Gone were the days of silly, princely frolicking through life; he'd grown sick of that easy charade. In fact, he started to let his stubble grow out a bit, vaguely enjoying the rough and masculine edge it seemed to give him. He scowled at himself in the mirror before suiting up. <em>Ballister never liked bad boys</em>, he thought to himself reproachfully. Then he thought with a cold smirk, <em>Well, fuck Ballister.</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He'd often step out in the evening, searching for a breath of fresh air (and perhaps a bit more than that). It was because of this newfound, burning unrest of his that Goldenloin found himself spending night after night at seedy uptown taverns, sitting with a sort of regal reserve on some rickety bar stool, swirling something hard and bitter around in a glass and staring moodily into its murky whirlpool, pausing only to draw long and irritable sips from the brine. He never liked the feeling of being drunk, but boredom often drew him to that fate. These taverns, dingy and often cramped, featuring nothing but a pathetic dance floor or glitchy hologram arcade, bore none of the glitz that could be found in the kingdom's more reputable bars and restaurants. Indeed, these old-style taverns, often <em>men's</em> taverns, if you catch my drift, chiefly offered a different sort of recreation.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The boys would typically approach Goldenloin with a shy sort of reverence, clutching some fruity and hardly-touched drink, their eyes bright with expectation. They'd heard the stories from friends, boyfriends, and colleagues: that some guy they knew had scored a night with Goldenloin, that their brother kissed him once in an alley, that they'd made eye contact with him in a tavern one night. All of them unanimously agreed: an encounter with Sir Goldenloin, however insignificant, was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. These boys came to the taverns holding these stories in their minds like proof. They wanted nothing more than to earn a story of their own to tell.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>As far as looks went, they were often slender, curly-haired twentysomethings, fresh-faced young men, perhaps a blacksmith's son or a scholar's apprentice - eager for love and even more eager for dick. Amir Abelman was a textbook example.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was a typical night for Goldenloin. After a considerable while of sighing heavily and sinking deeper and deeper into drunken melancholy, Goldenloin had allowed his eyes to wander around the dimly-lit tavern. On the other side of the room, a couple dozen young men wearing tunics and shorts that barely covered their asses were dancing wildly together on the glowing dance floor, some out-of-touch old song playing through tinny speakers, all of them giggling and gyrating with the feminine awkwardness of baby giraffes. Goldenloin wrinkled his nose disapprovingly at the spectacle and turned away. Just then, he met eyes with a different man, a newcomer, who stood at the counter and had clearly noticed Goldenloin a few moments prior. He hadn't been there the last time Goldenloin had looked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Goldenloin immediately broke eye contact and returned to his sullen routine of drink-swishing, suddenly feeling uneasy under the man's fixated gaze. The man was tall and good-looking, wearing some sleeveless chain mail top, not a day past twenty-five. His tanned skin seemed to gleam under the colored lights. Through the corner of his eye, Goldenloin saw the man smile gratefully at the bartender as he was handed a drink. His teeth were a blinding white. Goldenloin felt the unrest within him building, morphing into something hungrier.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He'd clenched his jaw, eyes still boring into the bar counter when he heard a velvety voice directed at him. "Care for a dance, sir?" Goldenloin inhaled sharply, but not a muscle in his face twitched. The man hadn't wasted much time, he noted to himself. Slowly, he turned to the man, who now stood only a few paces away, and let his eyes flicker up and down the man's impressive figure. Regarding the man with what he imagined to be a mysterious gaze, Goldenloin replied simply, "I don't dance." The man smiled wryly back at him, nodded. He'd known this all along. "Good," he said, "Neither do I." He sat down with ease on the stool beside Goldenloin and extended a hand with comic formality. "My name's Amir Abelman." Goldenloin raised a knowing eyebrow; he could see right through Amir's suave front. The man was just as nervous as the rest of them had been. Still, it wouldn't hurt to humor him, he thought. He shook Amir's hand. "And I guess you probably know who I am," he said gruffly. Amir nodded a bit too quickly, his barely-hidden exhilaration flashing into view. He took an anxious sip of his drink. Goldenloin returned to swishing his drink around. There was an expectant silence for a moment, until, in a bored attempt at conversation, he cleared his throat and asked Amir, "So... what do you do, Amir Abelman?" Amir hurried to swallow his drink, with a plain-faced eagerness that Goldenloin found embarrassing. "I'm a fruit vendor. Got a stall in the marketplace. I'm the son of Adam Abelman." He paused, waiting for recognition, and then added hopefully, "Y'know that big orchard out west? He's the owner." Goldenloin nodded vaguely; he'd never heard of the place, but it didn't matter. This was all meaningless prelude for what was to come. They fell silent again, as music rang out from the other side of the tavern. It was the B-52's, Goldenloin realized with distaste. Could they have possibly found anything kitschier?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Suddenly, Goldenloin knocked back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass down with a final <em>clink</em>. Amir perked up at the sound, his eyes trained timidly on Goldenloin, waiting with hot-blooded keenness for the magic question. Goldenloin sighed, completely aware of Amir's expectations. But in an undeniable way, he realized, Goldenloin wanted it himself. He turned to look at the young man, his cobalt eyes cutting directly into Amir's wide-eyed gaze, and spoke with a clear message lying beneath his words.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Wanna get out of here?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Amir flushed, the thrill of it all threatening to consume him. His hand fluttered unconsciously at his throat. It was really happening, he thought. He bit back a smile and gave an affected shrug.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Sure."</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>---</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The sex was intense. Amir hadn't expected the relatively effeminate man he'd met at the tavern to be quite so... dominant. Violent, almost.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Indeed, Goldenloin's performance was laced with a sort of anger, of desperation. It was as if he knew, deep down, that no amount of physical gratification could possibly fill the massive emotional void that had been left by Blackheart. This was simply a quick thing, designed to be forgotten about by morning. Still, this was no matter to Amir. He gotten what he'd bargained for, after all, and judging by the dutiful moans and whimpers that escaped him with every thrust, his expectations had been far exceeded. Goldenloin, on the other hand, didn't make a sound.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When it was all over, and Amir lay in bed with a triumphant smile, already composing the dramatic tale in his mind, Goldenloin dressed in the hotel bathroom and weighed his options. He could leave now, or wait for Amir to fall asleep. What did it matter? The boy had to know that it was only a thoughtless fling; surely there were no feelings to be hurt. Still, Goldenloin thought, it wouldn't hurt to be polite. At least to say some sort of goodbye. And so, he stepped out of the bathroom, his silhouette rimmed with flourescent light, and sat down with restraint on the empty side of the bed. Amir had turned to face him the moment he'd entered the room, and now he gazed up at him with an almost childlike curiosity. The kid was cute, he had to admit to himself.  After a moment, Amir whispered, "Hey." Ambrosius hesitated, then glanced over briefly at Amir, whose face glowed with moonlight and such infatuation that he wanted to avert his eyes. "Yeah." Amir swallowed hard before asking, "Can you, uh... Can you spend the night?" Ambrosius turned away, his expression gone cold. "Can't," was his curt reply. "Institution would find out, and then they'd get suspicious, and so on." Amir couldn't hide his disappointment. "Oh, right. Yeah. Of course. That makes sense. Sorry." He looked like he wanted to kick himself. How could he ask such a silly question to the champion of the kingdom? Goldenloin saw Amir's shame and softened a bit. He offered him a half-smile. "It's alright."</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>After a while, Amir fell asleep, and as he lay there with a face as innocent and ruddy-cheeked as an angel's, Goldenloin took a moment to gaze at the young man for the last time. His curls framed his face quite nicely, he decided. Then, with a little farewell pat on Amir's shoulder, Goldenloin stood up and slipped off into the night.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>---</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That's how it always went: the young men would doze off, worn out from the evening's excitement, their broad and fuzzy chests rising and falling with soft, peaceful snores, and Goldenloin could make his escape seamlessly and, as he preferred it, without looking back. Except for the rare exceptions, like Igor, who woke up while Goldenloin was still silently brushing his hair in the mirror. "Sir," he said sleepily, his voice a deep purr heavily laden with Ukrainian accent, "...Will I ever see you again?" Goldenloin sighed, his bare chest reflecting dim light in the mirror. "Probably not." Igor had sighed as well. "Ah." He smiled wistfully to himself. "Shame."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Before leaving the room that night, Goldenloin had called out to Igor softly, and a bit awkwardly, "Um. Have a good one." He gave a little wave and was off.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He wasn't used to formal goodbyes.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hooo BOY. This one's been in the works for quite some time.<br/>Thanks for all the hits/kudos, by the way! I honestly have no idea what you guys prefer in a fanfic, so always feel free to leave a comment with suggestions if you have any. As always, I love y'all and remember: BLACK LIVES MATTER.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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